There was an old Rabbi of Ur;
He loved a Miss Beaulieu.
She sent him a letter: " Dear Sir . . ."
Then a stone-cold " Yours truly."
Now what she could mean
By the dots in between
Is not plain to be seen.
We can but infer the Rabbi of Ur
Enquired of Miss Beaulieu.

A smile because the nights are short!
And every morning brings such pleasure
Of sweet love-making, harmless sport:
Love that makes and finds its treasure;
Love, treasure without measure.

A sigh because the days are long!
Long long these days that pass in sighing,
A burden saddens every song:
While time lags which should be flying,
We live who would be dying.

A CALM EVENING .

Look on these waters, with how soft a kiss
They woo the pebbled shore! then steal away,
Like wanton lovers, — but to come again,
And die in music! — There, the bending skies
See all their stars, — and the beach-loving trees,
Osiers and willows, and the watery flowers,
That wreathe their pale roots round the ancient stones,
Make pictures of themselves!

I bore with thee long weary days and nights,
Through many pangs of heart, through many tears;
I bore with thee, thy hardness, coldness, slights,
For three and thirty years.

Who else had dared for thee what I have dared?
I plunged the depth most deep from bliss above;
I not My flesh, I not My spirit spared:
Give thou Me love for love.

For thee I thirsted in the daily drouth,
For thee I trembled in the nightly frost:
Much sweeter thou than honey to My mouth:
Why wilt thou still be lost?

The cares o' Love are sweeter far
Than onie other pleasure;
And if sae dear its sorrows are
Enjoyment, what a treasure!SHE

I fear to try, I dare na try
A passion sae ensnaring;
For light's her heart and blythe's her song
That for nae man is caring.

Hide not, sweetest Love, a sight so pleasing
As those smalls so light composed,
Those fair pillars your knees gently easing,
That tell wonders, being disclosed.
O show me yet a little more:
Here's the way, bar not the door.

How like sister's twines these knees are joined
To resist my bold approaching!
Why should beauty lurk like mines uncoined?
Love is right and no encroaching.
O show me yet a little more:
Here's the way, bar not the door.

Not Love, not War, nor the tumultuous swell
Of civil conflict, nor the wrecks of change,
Nor Duty struggling with afflictions strange—
Not these alone inspire the tuneful shell;
But where untroubled peace and concord dwell,
There also is the Muse not loth to range,
Watching the twilight smoke of cot or grange,
Skyward ascending from a woody dell.
Meek aspirations please her, lone endeavour,
And sage content, and placid melancholy;
She loves to gaze upon a crystal river—
Diaphanous because it travels slowly;

O Love, where are thy Shafts, thy Quiver, and thy Bow?
Shall my wounds onely weepe, and hee ungaged goe?
Be just, and strike him, to, that dares contemne thee so.

No eyes are like to thine, though men suppose thee blinde,
So fayre they levell when the marke they list to finde:
Then strike, o strike the heart that beares the cruell minde.

Is my fond sight deceived? or doe I Cupid spye
Close ayming at his breast, by whom despis'd I dye?
Shoot home, sweet Love , and wound him, that hee may not flye!

If Love loves truth, then women doe not love;
Their passions all are but dissembled shewes;
Now kinde and free of favour if they prove,
Their kindnes straight a tempest overthrowes.
Then as a Sea-man the poore lover fares:
The storme drownes him ere hee can drowne his cares.

But why accuse I women that deceive?
Blame then the Foxes for their subtile wile:
They first from Nature did their craft receive:
It is a womans nature to beguile.
Yet some, I grant, in loving stedfast grow;
But such by use are made, not nature, so.

O never to be moved,
O beauty unrelenting!
Hard hart, too dearely loved;
Fond love, too late repenting!
Why did I dreame of too much blisse?
Deceitfull hope was cause of this.
O heare mee speake this, and no more:
Live you in joy, while I my woes deplore.

All comforts despayred
Distaste your bitter scorning;
Great sorrowes unrepayred
Admit no meane in mourning:
Dye, wretch, since hope from thee is fled;
He that must dye is better dead.
O deare delight, yet, ere I dye,
Some pitty shew, though you reliefe deny.